


Our Death's Eve

by GingerFrenchie



Series: Jaqarya One-Shots Sequence [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Before the Great battle, Canon Compliant, F/M, Jaqarya, Older Man/Younger Woman, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 16:53:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17901905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerFrenchie/pseuds/GingerFrenchie
Summary: While Westeros is preparing to fight the army of the dead, Arya watches her sister train, and gets into a little arrangement.





	Our Death's Eve

**Author's Note:**

> (Written before season 8). Inspired by an interview where Sophie Turner said Sansa would be seen wearing an armour in S8 which I found super cool. And it's smut because I'll take any excuse to write it.

“Urgh”, Sansa groaned again after missing the aim, and Arya couldn't restrain her smile.

 

It reminded her of her childhood, when she groaned just like that when Old Nan was forcing her to take extra time to learn her lessons. As children, the younger sister had been the one who was being punished because her writing wasn't pretty enough, or her stitches were crooked, or because her dresses were always covered in mud. Now it was Sansa, the perfect lady with shiny hair and porcelain skin and fine features who was struggling to do what was demanded of her by their King. Jon had been true to his word. Every boy and every maiden, every man and every woman from the age of ten to sixty was training to fight the upcoming war, and that included noblemen and noblewomen as well. Particularly noblemen and noblewomen, actually, for they were expected to lead their armies and show them what was right.

 

The leather armour she was wearing quite suited her actually. The way she held the bow was funny, but she looked a thousand times fiercer than when she was wearing a gown.

 

Another arrow went flying through the cold air with a slow _fuuush_ , and ended well below the bull's eye, almost in the dirt.

 

“It's more difficult than it looks”, said Arya, her voice rusty from the freezing air, but her tone a bit amused.

 

Sansa noticed her little sister observing her, and repressed an ashamed smile. “I've been hiding for a reason”, she said, her eyes drifting around them. True, that the Godswood was no regular place to train in, but seeing the inconsequential number of arrows her sister had achieved to shoot in the straw aim, her urges for intimacy were understandable.

“Why is this so difficult? Children with half my years shoot in the bull's eye just fine.”

 

“Flex your arm. Yes, like that”, Arya pointed out. “And don't hold for too long before shooting, you'll only tire yourself. Aim and shoot.”

 

Sansa sighed and tried again, and the arrow landed only a few feet away from them.

 

“There's no way I'll be able to defend anyone during that war.”

 

“Be patient. That's what Old Nan used to tell me when I moaned about my ugly embroidery.” Arya brushed some snow off a stone and sat near her sister.

 

“Well, luckily we don't repel White Walkers with embroidered tapestries and dresses, because I fear you never got really good.” Sansa laughed, and Arya joined her. “We all have our strength and weaknesses, I guess.” She shot another arrow, which pierced the aim quite fast and almost in the middle. “Hey, your tip worked!”

 

Arya smiled at her childish shriek, and squeezed her knees together for warmth. She had spent the day training young girls and boys from the castle, with as much skills as Sansa but without nearly as much persistence. Sansa went to fetch her arrows, refilled her stack and came back, before easing the collar of the leather coat she was wearing.

 

“I need a break”, she said, before putting down her bow and collapsing near her little sister. She wore her hair in a long and tight braid, and some auburn strands stuck to her lovely face slick with sweat. “How's your friend going?”

 

“Gendry? He's been forging Valyrian Steel since he arrived I believe. The sound of that hammer on the anvil all day long is haunting me even through the night.” Sansa loved to small talk. Arya had gotten used to it since her return, though it had never felt natural to her. But sometimes she yielded to her sister's gushing nature.

 

“No, not that one. The one from Essos who arrived a few days ago. How are he and his men adapting to the cold?”

 

“Oh, Jaqen…” _Friend_ was a weird word to associate with Jaqen. He had been her killer, her teacher, but a friend… friend did not really roll off her tongue easily.

“I guess they're doing good with the cold. No one hasn't really complained about it, though they don't really complain about anything. They're here out of duty towards their Death God I think. Surely they don't like the idea of the dead coming back. I haven't been talking to them much though.”

 

“I've noticed that.” Sansa arranged her pelts, and detached the belts that held the armour, which Arya guessed she was not really comfortable in. When she turned her back towards her little sister, Arya undid the remaining belts, and a big sigh of relief escaped Sansa's mouth when she was finally rid of the garment. “Did something happen in Essos? You're strange when he's around, stranger than usual.”

 

“Well… I held my Needle to his heart and basically spat at everything he had just taught me, so maybe that explains the strangeness.” Arya giggled quietly, remembering the scene. How she had been ready to do some _embroidery_ on him, after taking care of that freaking Waif. She had been ready to show him what it meant to hit Arya Stark with a stick and send a murdering psycho after her. But when the time came to pierce through his flesh, her arm had become weak and her willpower dissolving into the air. Luckily she had been strong enough to utter the words she had been preparing.

“At first I thought he'd come back to make me pay for leaving the Faceless Men's guild,” she resumed. “But we had a little talk about that and he said that game was over.”

 

“And that was before or after you started eyeing him all day long?” Sansa was leaning on the rock, her chest still heaving high and low from the recent exercise. Her pretty cheeks were pink with the blood rushing through her, and now she adorned a sneaky smile.

 

“What?”, Arya asked, denying the emotion she felt. That skill, she had kept from her training as a Faceless Man.

 

“Come on, don't be silly. There's no time for it. We're off to fight an army of dead corpses, I remind you. You may be strange, but that kind of strangeness, I know quite well. You've been fidgeting with your fingers and toying with the laces of your coat when he's around. Once, I even noticed you blush.”

 

“It's the cold.”, Arya responded, pushing away the other thoughts.

 

“Hmm… “, Sansa purred, dubious. She pushed herself up, and gathered her bow again. She picked up an arrow, and examined the sculpted feathers on the tip.

“If sometime you need someone to keep you warm at night, I can give you some tips on how to proceed, if in exchange you help me train with the bow. My experience with men is not very glorious, but I still manage to make Sandor happy.” She rose her prettily defined brows, and arranged her gloves.

 

“I don't care what you and the Hound do”, Arya groaned, her face still locked.

 

“As you wish.” Sansa shrugged, and readied herself to shoot again. Arya sighed, before chewing on her lower lip. She took a breath in and pondered, for a short second, then stood next to her sister.

 

“Alright, imagine there's a line between you and the aim. Your body has to be perpendicular to that line. Then stand upright and aim”, she said, before hearing Sansa chuckle.

 

*

 

A knock on his door. These were unusual since he had arrived in the North. Before opening he tried to scout outer noises and guess who it might be. When he noticed nothing but the far barks of the hounds in the kennels, his thoughts settled on his faceless brother. He opened the door quietly, and-

 

“Lovely girl?”, slipped out of his mouth. He cursed himself the next second. He had not meant to call her that. This name belonged to another place, and another time, before Braavos and before she hated him. He did not wish to tarnish those memories.

 

She entered without granting him a look, but the light blush on her snowy skin did not go unnoticed. She was wearing a loose shirt and a pair of breeches too wide for her legs, and boots barely laced up. And she was not carrying any weapon, neither her little needle nor her pretty dagger. _She did not go out of her chambers like this, did she?_

 

“It's been a while since you didn't call me that,” she said, her voice a bit broken from the cold. He didn't answer. What did she mean? Why was she here? “I think I missed it.”

 

He didn't answer either. He inclined his head, and looked at her, gazing his room. Her back was towards him, and with the light of the fire he could almost guess her form beneath that shirt. He walked over, in front of her, and forced their faces to meet. Hers was like a puzzle, though he had been quite good at guessing what she thought, in the past. But now she was a riddle, and somewhere on the smile she willed a little too casual, he could almost read that even she didn't have the answer yet to her own confusions.

 

“What does a girl want?”, he asked, and only after did he realize he had made his tone deeper. Why was that? The fire cracked, and he wanted his thoughts to cease questioning his doings. Weird, for he had done so for so many years.

 

“You.”, she said, finally her eyes meeting his. The blood rushed through him, making his head feel lighter. Was she certain of what she was saying?

 

“This man is yours, sword and devotion.” He thought he'd tease her a bit, just to make sure she was not playing the cruel game with him. Although Arya Stark had never been a real player. She liked to skip straight to the point and do her deed.

 

“And how… devoted are you?”, she said, and he noticed her voice was lower than usual. She took a step towards him, and made her hips swing like a cat's. _She's playing_ , a voice in him murmured. _Good_ , he thought, for she must know the kind of deed she was demanding right now required some playing to be enjoyable. And that gleam in her grey eyes indicated him that she wanted every bit of it to be enjoyable. But what game was she playing? The teasing one or the cruel one?

 

She stepped closer, and he could feel the warmth of her small body from this close. The top of her head barely reached his shoulders, and she was craning her neck to look a him. He kept looking at her face, pondering if her should stop her or not. A curious hand reached for his waist and settled there, and her eyes grew rounder.

 

“As devoted as you need this man to be.”, he said, tracing the side of her jaw. He made his touch light on purpose, and he could read the satisfaction in the way she moved forward for more. “But he thought a girl hated him.” He did not mean to kill the mood, but he wanted this problem settled, before they moved to a more intimate kind of devotion. He did not want to be only a pretty face to her, because she was not to him.

 

“I did. For a while, for all the time we spent in Braavos, the only thing I wanted to see was you face hanging on these walls. But then I could not find the strength to kill you, and after… I realized I was here, home and safe, thanks to you.” She took her hand away from his waist, and only then did he realize he had already grown accustomed to it, and now it felt like it was missing. “And then you came to Winterfell. It's weird seeing you in these walls, it's like… I'm seeing you for the first time.”

 

His lips curled up into a smirk, a proud one, like he did not wear often.

 

“A man did not mean to hurt a girl, this whole time she hated him.” This was partly true. All the wounds he inflicted her he knew she could heal, and learn from.

 

“I know.”, she answered, sure, and he did not detect any lie. He smiled. _She grew_. “But admit it, you could have been a little gentler,” she continued with an amused smile.

 

“Yes.” He chuckled. “I could have. But a man will repay himself, and be gentle now,” he said when he felt her approach closer. Now their knees brushed, and he only needed to dip his head a little further for his lips to touch her skin.

 

“Don't be.”, she said. This one he knew came without thinking. He watched her cheeks redden and her eyes get lost. “I mean, don't be too gentle… I mean- no, I don't know, be like you-… but,” she tried to explain herself, and he grinned at her nervousness. He kissed her on the lips to cut her tense babble. She was clearly surprised, but after a few seconds she relaxed into the kiss, and her lips were softer. She steadied herself with both her hands on his waist, and he realized she was pushing herself on the tips of her toes to make it more comfortable to him. He broke their kiss, and scooped her up a wooden commode that was here. His act planted a foolish smile on the lips he had just kissed, and which he wanted to taste again already.

 

He planted a little, feathery peck on that cute smile, and then ran the tip of his nose on her cheekbone, letting her enjoy his hot breath all the way to her ear. “Worry not, lovely girl. This man will take good care of you.” With that she bit her lip, and his only goal for the night was now to outdo the images she had just made up in her head and that made her blush so.

 

She sneaked her hands under his shirt. He had been touched by women before, but her fingers on his abs felt like a totally new feeling. His lips ventured to tease her neck and that tiny bit of shoulder her loose shirt allowed him to see. He planted a few kisses here and there, and nibbled that warm spot bellow her ear where her skin was softer. The little chaps on his lips due to the cold of these lands prickled her, and she shivered in his arms.

 

Her hands ventured higher to caress his chest and ghost around his nipples, which he suspected she didn't dare yet to properly touch. He kissed her on the lips again, and closed his eyes to enjoy more of that oddly satisfying feeling. He did not remember that kissing was so full and enjoyable, but the sensation he liked the best was the one of having her so close to him, feel her breath on his face and her form in his arms. Just for that night, he allowed himself to call her his.

She sighed against him, and he felt her mouth open tentatively against his. He felt the wet tip of her tongue against his lower lip, shy and scared at first. He opened for her, and she was brave enough to go to the end of her experiment. Her tongue slid against his, and he helped it dance the right way. She moaned quietly, and he felt like a green boy again when he could not repress the fuzziness in his stomach. They parted for air, and he observed with delight her glistening lips. He let her remove his shirt, and they chuckled when she couldn't ease it above his raised arms despite being sat on the piece of furniture. He tossed the useless piece of fabric away, and decided it was his turn to venture on her skin.

 

His fingers played on the bare skin of her waist under the wide shirt first, to see how she reacted. Then he moved an inch higher, his fingers like a curious little insect gaining territory, until his palm cupped her left breast and his thumb toyed with her nipple. It hardened at his touch, and he noticed her holding her breath. She circled her arms around his shoulder and pushed her chest toward him, before stealing his lips. His hand went to her back, the other held her thigh, and he lifted her and laid her on the bed. It had been freshly made, smelled of sweet and fruity soap still, and only waited for them to crumple it's perfect set of lined sheets. For a flicker of a second he asked himself if a drop of her blood would drip on those perfect sheets when he would enter her for the first time, and the thought made his manhood grow. She was a maiden, he knew, and he marvelled at the idea that she had come to him to experience the first taste of womanhood, though he found her choice very senseless. She was a sweet, sweet thing for him to have, so sweet he wondered if he deserved even half of a tenth of her attention, and he didn't even dare to ask himself if he was worthy of the tiniest bit of her affection. But she had more courage than sense, that, he knew too.

 

He opened the strings of that indecently oversized shirt of hers, and explored her with his lips and tongue. A giggle escaped her when he nibbled at her nipple, and then swirled his tongue around it until it was pleasantly soft and wet. He enjoyed to feel that little tip in his mouth, and he particularly loved how she wiggled when he played with it. Her wide pants, he removed next, and left her in a pair of cotton underclothes.

 

She moved and settled on her knees, directing him with no words to do the same. A playful smile was on her lips. _She has an idea_ , he thought, amused. She pulled on the string that held his pants, and he watched her slow down when she faced the bulge in his own cotton underclothes. _Is she nervous?_ Some of her willpower must have drifted away, for she brought her eyes back to his and kissed him again. She nestled her head near his throat and her little kisses there tickled him. One more adventurous hand had regained it's braveness and hovered near his concealed hardness. She touched him with an unusual softness, as if she feared to hurt him. He twitched lightly under her timid fingers, and she removed them as if she had burned herself.

 

“I'm sorry,” she blurted.

 

“A girl did no harm”, he said taking her hand, and making her squeeze him until a grunt escaped his throat. She smiled, and his hand went down her back, to travel near the hem of what was hiding the last bit of her. She kept touching him, until she grew too curious to see what made him react so. She pulled down the fabric hiding him, and his penis stood upright, hungry and ready. He examined her reaction, but with her head crooked like that it was hard to see her features. She ran a finger along the length of him, circled his pink tip. Then she leaned downward, and before he had the time to ask himself if she knew what she was doing, that pink tip was discovering the hotness of her mouth. An uncontrolled sigh flew out of his nose, and he watched her head move down and down, until she could not take any more in. His fingers wrapped in her brown hair, and quickly she understood the rhythm that satisfied him. Quicker than he had expected, he started to feel the blood rush through him, and closed his eyes to enjoy the feeling. A shaky sigh escaped him when he reached the peak she allowed him, and she kept working him with her surprisingly knowing hand while sucking off his juice. She licked her lips clean when she was done, and he took her head and plunged forward to taste himself. He knew he was minty and kind of bitter, but in her mouth he liked it.

 

He had not finished his savoury experiments when he became hard again against her thigh.

 

She laid down, an excited smile ruling her face. She opened her arms for him to come near her, which he did not wait two seconds to do. He removed the last bit of fabric that hid her from him, planted a small kiss on the joint of her hip before coming back up to face her. He positioned himself above her, parted her legs, took himself in hand and ran his tip along her opening, slick with a hot wetness. He breathed in before entering, a naive part of him awakening to wonder at the sight of her spread out under him, just for him, and ready to have him in her.

 

If it was painful her face betrayed no sign of it. He went in slow and deep, until all of his manhood was coated with warmth and that lovely compression of her inner walls. He watched her handle the new feelings, and waited for her to relax before moving again. He rocked and bounced, in and out until she was losing her breath. When her knee started to tremble he kissed her on the lips once more, and a senseless fear caught his guts that she might just leave him once he had made lights explode in her head. But when her limbs shook beneath him and her mouth was agape in pleasure and her gleaming gaze crossed his, thick with desire and that special spice he did not dare to name love, he told himself that he was a fool to think she would go anywhere without him. His hands glided against her body while she was climbing the steps towards that voluptuous bliss, and when she threw her head back and pulsed down there, he felt like the happiest man in the world. He had taught her how to be strong, but the distress he now read on her face made him prouder.

 

He went on, feeling the climax build within himself as well. He felt her squeeze around him, and her short nails scraped his back, which he noticed was a bit moist with sweat. He watched his own thoughts starting to fly away and leave space for the vibrant rapture awaiting him. He accelerated, delighted by the wet sound of him going inside of her and the hum of her hushed moans. She tried to control the strings of voice that slipped out of her by biting her lip, but fortunately for him she wasn't always succesful. Finally he came, his muscles petrified with pleasure for half a second, and then his manhood was softening and spilling his seed in her. He sighed in trance, and hugged her tight. Her little breasts pressed against his chest, and her body was warm and shaky and exhausted. He felt the euphoria roll away and came back to earth, to meet with her bright smile.

 

He would have gladly whispered in her ear that he loved her, but he feared now was not the right time.


End file.
